The First Fireworks
by Xx Ryo xX
Summary: The first time he sees them as a child, and what leads on from that when he grows up. It's an explanation about his past, and how it shows in his present. Reviews and constructive criticism are fairly welcome! Thank you for reading! If you do read it.


**Disclaimer:** Tintin and all characters, settings, and ideas referenced to from the comics © **Hergé**.

**A/N: **Anyway, this idea came to me when I was watching the Australia Day fireworks. It became too long to be a Drabble, far too long, so here it is.

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><p><strong>xXx<br>Fireworks  
><strong>

...

The first time Tintin sees fireworks is when he's only 12.  
>It's his first New Years celebration with both his parents, and the first time he will ever see the bright sparks with a hand held out to each of them, both his mother and father who stand beside him as they gaze up at the darkened sky. This is the first time he will see them light up his world before his eyes.<br>And his last.

It's been planned for a while, timed perfectly so his father can be present for it after returning from wherever in the world he has been. Tintin doesn't hear _where_ because his mother never tells him, he can only see the smile on her face as she receives the letters in the mail every few days over the weeks of his absence and make guesses from that. He has learnt that when she expresses this one particular smile, the one where her eyes brighten as though the shadows that fall across their doorstep can no longer touch her, it means his father is closer to their country, possibly crossing a neighbouring one, or possibly even in the same continent; it's difficult to tell the difference. He can tell, when she looks and then the smile fades ever so slightly and her eyes fall downcast for a brief second, that his father is further away, possibly somewhere across to the other side of the earth, or where the distance can't be shortened easily or very soon.  
>It's not impossible to tell when his father is out of contact as it speaks for itself. The mail will come in without a single letter stamped with an exotic picture and laced with something new, no carefully written words in ink on any of the letters addressed to 'My wife' followed by her name and their address, as melancholy as they might be.<p>

The lack of letters is the worst, Tintin comes to realize, but the time that it stresses out of them never lasts for too long. Another letter will soon arrive, usually thicker and more detailed, and warrants the smile that may or may not be either of the two he can already read. Tintin never asks, and his mother never tells.  
>It doesn't bother him, though, not knowing.<br>Nor would it.

The night of the fireworks, December 31st. Saint Sylvester Eve.  
>Tintin has never anticipated such a night, such an opportunity to stay up beyond the mere 7:30pm when it's already so very late and the sun has already set. No, this time he gets to stay up past midnight, proof that such a time does exist, and they are waiting for proof of the Old Year being left behind.<br>He is excited and, for the first time in ages, feels the warmth of having two parents sitting beside him. It is perfect. How couldn't it be?

Tintin recalls the exact time the fireworks began, and the exact moment when they finished, a memory that he is never going to discard or retell. He can't recall them in words, and utterly refuses to even try. Fireworks, he thinks, are not meant to be visually described, both through words or pictures. A photograph of a firework is never going to be a sufficient replacement for the real aesthetic noise, light, smoke, or floating debris. Nor is trying to physically characterize them through speech; you can't simply stop something as temporarily wonderful as a firework into a simple image without colour or sound. So words bring it further away from what it really was, and doesn't give it the merit it deserves.

They are only describable through emotion, Tintin thinks and believes. You can explain them through feeling, but definitely not through sight.  
>"So, what did you think of the fireworks?" his mother asks him quietly after they have finally disappeared from the sky. Her hand tightens a little on his hand.<br>"The fireworks?" he says, looking up and drawing his mind over the last half an hour, trying to think.

_Fireworks.  
><em>_The fireworks?_

He closes his eyes.

_Elation. That's what they were.  
><em>_Yes, elation; something that could be passed down to us sitting here, watching.  
><em>_They'd draw a delicate line triumphantly across the sky, and they were thrilling in an entirely different way to how I might be thrilled at finding something I've lost, or finding us together again. Because those fireworks, each separate beam will never be together or found again, they'll go their separate ways and disappear.  
><em>_But we won't, will we?  
><em>_We aren't like fireworks.  
><em>_We aren't the same.  
><em>… _but yes, they were still thrilling._

_It's as though someone took every single feeling of sheer joy, euphoria, tragic fear, perhaps even delight, and weaved it into the sky only to explode and fall apart. __There was an impending disappointment though... that it would all end inevitably, but they'd continue to shine in surprise, like an empty feeling of fondness. They'd never stop.  
><em>_Their exhilaration was contagious; it could touch us from all the way up there, like they were on the same basis as the moon, but not quite. They were aiming for it, though, like they could replace our stars. As impatient as they were, they'd end all too quickly, but we'd believe the loss for only a split second longer before the next firework would be brought up into the sky with the same lack of grace, and same ambition, to replace the previous one._

_It was like someone's imagination could be painted, or printed, up there, and the ideas were too restless to stay set. They were intoxicating, it was burning and uncontrollable like the anger you might find in someone who was just as agitated from the _inconsistencies_ of, well, anything. The discrepancy was…. lovely.  
><em>_They were obnoxiously loud too, but we didn't care, and we still don't, and we never will. Because the fleeting sounds were a part of the entire night, part of their need to be impressing and leave an imprint on our minds eye.  
><em>_I don't think I could ever…_

Tintin doesn't answer; he only opens his eyes, blinks rapidly and looks down again, a slight frown on his face as he tries to come up with a coherent sentence to show what he thinks. It's difficult, and he rubs his eyes, not wanting to think too much longer. Not to mention he is tired, and maybe the mere 7:30pm bedtime wasn't so unreasonable after all.

It's exactly a month later after that day that Tintin suddenly notices something different, drastically different.  
>A change, one almost unfathomable change. He's is young but sharp minded and very intelligent so while it may be perceived as small and insignificant, it's rare that any changes such as this will still go unnoticed, and unless they're not serious enough, unmentioned.<br>"Where are they?" he demands, a little harsher and with more petulance than he'd hoped for. The worry in his voice is poorly covered.  
>His mother looks down at him startled, alarmed. He isn't able to settle with anything else to say and simply repeats the question, a little softer this time.<br>"I… where are they?"  
>"What are you talking about?" She kneels down to his height; concern is beginning to show with a worried expression that matches her sons. "What's wrong? Where is what?"<br>"The letters!" Tintin tries not to raise his voice, but this realization had only come to him five minutes ago. "Why have they stopped?"  
>"Stopped?"<br>He nods once, and quickly runs to the door where a pile of mail had been sitting before his mother picked them up 10 minutes ago and flicked through them. She straightens up, and looks over to where her son is standing.  
>He looks pointedly at the pile of letters on the table, and then at the door.<br>"They haven't been coming in, have they?" he says, calming down and now waiting for an answer. "Why not?"

There's a brief silence.

"Because the replies have stopped," she says simply after a moment, walking to where he is and placing a hand on his cheek and turning him to look up at her. This is where Tintin finds another change, again, surprising. She is gently smiling at him, but it's one he hasn't seen before, and he can't recognize it.  
>It isn't the same as the one when there is a typical gap between letters because it isn't distantly disappointed, or let down. It can't be the other because there isn't a present letter to elicit it from her. It's just... contently quiet, and pleasantly bemused, but that may be from his sudden behaviour.<br>"It's all alright now," she continues soothingly, and her tone is so convincingly reassuring. She isn't perturbed anymore and that indicates in a round about way of saying, neither should he be. He stares up at her, inwardly debating on whether he should continue asking or else leave it. He doesn't understand, and he can't think why this is all new. In the end, he decides to stop asking, and doesn't bring it up again, because he's been indirectly told doesn't need to.  
>After that day, the letters aren't mentioned or seen again either.<p>

December 31st is never the same again, as there was never a single firework seen after _that _date, after _that_ New Year's welcome. They arrive and leave each 12th month, still.  
>He says he doesn't want to go.<br>His mother doesn't press him.

An uncounted number of years pass by unavoidably; the days quickly disappear into weeks, then slowly into months, and then gradually into many years.  
>Too slow, he thinks.<p>

ooo

Tintin is older now, but not by too much. There's been a distinct amount of time added on from then, from _that_ night, but he is still roughly the same person with the same eyes, same mind, same charisma; same everything.

But now, he is alone with his own apartment with his own career in his hand, and his own future that is his and his alone. He meets people, he meets many kinds of fascinating people, and he travels more than what most people would even try.  
>"Oh, it comes with the job!" he tells people when they ask while passing by, but he likes to think of it as it comes more with his life than simply the occupation he has. To those who know him, he lives alone with only his beloved pet Snowy, a white fox terrier who is fiercely loyal and shares his owner's tenacious determination. The two could easily be best friends as well as owner and dog, and they are. Anyone could see it. So if someone who knew him was to follow his footsteps whenever he goes when he is staying at home between his adventures, they'd find it odd that he buys 2 copies of the same newspaper, and his paper no less, the one he writes for.<p>

It isn't for a friend, they'd know, because his friends don't live with him or live in close vicinity. The only one who does is Snowy, and the paper is hardly going to be for him. It is a nice idea, but not quite worth the few extra pounds he spends. But no one finds it puzzling because no one knows, and Tintin doesn't tell anyone the reason of why he buys two when he only reads one.

It is the second newspaper that somehow lets him stay in touch with home, and in turn, his mother and perhaps, if he ever came back, his father. He isn't able to visit or return to where he used to live, not now of all times, because of reasons he doesn't want to think of. He can't call because he won't, and he won't write long notes home because he can't. But he can afford to buy a second paper, then carry the two papers across the 7 streets it takes to reach his apartment, walk through the hallway and climb up the stairs, unlock his door and walk over to his desk in his study, and place them on the side where he places them every time he does this. Another thing he can and does do is spend about an hour carefully flicking to his report, in the second paper, that he has spent the past few weeks or months working on to print. He then cuts them out to stick on a thicker piece of card later, as though to frame them. He takes his time doing this, not because it is hard to do but because he likes to make sure that the clippings aren't ripped, or damaged, or crumpled in any way.

After cutting them, shaping them to the calibre he is satisfied with, he'll rummage through his various collection of stationery to find a flat posting letter that is large enough to fit the entire article in without it needing to be folded.  
>Tintin isn't too concerned about them getting bent in the post it's just that he doesn't want them to be folded in half when being slid into the letter. The address he writes is always in ink and he writes neatly, in his narrow handwriting, his first homes address; his parents address, the one he left being a part of but never forgot. He'll never disclose a note written by him, by hand, aside from the formal location listed on the outside, because that just might necessitate an expected reply; it might leave an implication that there should be something in return.<p>

It isn't that he doesn't wish for a reply sent back, it's just that if he does write a lengthy letter explaining all the "**why's-?**" and "**what if's-?**" and "**how are's-?**" that he's left behind with his childhood, if he were not to receive a response at all because _the replies have stopped, _it justmight end it for him. He finally understands what she meant _that_ day, and it was the very deliberate misplacing of the word 'the'. It should have been a bitter: '_My_'.

At least an unattached, separated collection of report clippings hold their own sentiment in their own way, but don't imply that they must be returned in kind. Which they are anyway, by the way, by an equally unattached, separated, unemotional, and quite non-existent reply, every single time.  
>But this doesn't bother Tintin, and he doesn't mind. He shares his parent's indifference.<br>Because it's alright.  
>She said so.<p>

He knows for a fact that these numerous reports he spends an hour preparing and sending off are received and accepted, may or may not be acquired in bad grace or not, and that alone is enough for him. If they were missent, they'd simply be returned to sender. If they weren't missent but not welcome, again, they'd be returned to sender except probably with a request that would say 'please stop'. Neither of these has happened, and after the 5th report, he doubts they ever will.

He doesn't like to think about it for too long, however. Tintin is quite comfortable with this arrangement, and doesn't think questioning it would be very pragmatic. While he isn't openly conscious of it, he knows that the moment he sets his mind for too long on this very personal matter, it will hurt. Actually, he isn't sure it will hurt, but he doesn't want to test it and find out that it's too painful, and he doesn't want to know what might happen if it isn't. The entire thing is far too arduous to become too enamoured with the details, and for now he is content with where everything is placed in his life and their select accordance with each other.

Perhaps, someday lost in the future, when everything no longer needs to be so definite, he will change and write a simple one page letter of himself and send it back to where he came from. When things settle down and become manageable without the alterity of _just everything_, he will do this, he promises.  
>But for the present, it can wait, and it can wait a very long time, perhaps even forever.<p>

Because everything is alright.  
>It's all alright <em>now<em>.

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><p><strong>AN:** 2710 words, you guys. Actually doesn't look all too impressive now that I see it, but close enough.  
>Please, please, leave a review! I'd love to hear your opinions of this!<br>… I think.

And this will be an obnoxiously long authors note.

**xXx**

**Funtime trivia/notes:**

**1) **Reference to New Years Eve:  
>In Belgium, New Year's Eve is called "Saint Sylvester Eve". It can also be known as "Oudjaar" which means "Old Year", both of which I referenced in this fic. Well, the English.<p>

**2) **It's deliberately a lot more verbose. Because of reasons. Some of which could be school related.

**3) **I have a spin-off vaguely related Drabble to go with this fic in my head. Maybe. If I don't procrastinate.

**4) **I had to avoid naming everyone in this, so the parents and Tintin are nameless. "Tintin" itself is a pseudonym (probably), so his parents wouldn't call him that presumably. So that's why.

**5) **This fic looked longer on Word and Publisher, I swear.

**6) **I did, and still do, have an idea for what happened with the parents.  
>I won't be writing it in a fic, though. But I did have a solid basis to write off for them, so it's not just me typing blindly. I promise.<p>

**7) **I originally intended to give him a non-angsty childhood. Then I shot that idea to hell the moment I started writing.

**8) **So much editing.


End file.
